


something shriveled up and tight

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, I can say definitely that I’m not always like This Mess, I wrote this when I hadn’t slept all night, Implied Sexual Content, I’ll probably regret posting this but yolo, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mentioned Divorce, Out of Character, Paranoia, Possessive Behavior, Sadomasochistic tendencies, This is just vent ignore me, Trust Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, everything feels stagnant and like both me and the world will never get any better so, i don’t even know man?, mentioned arrest, mentioned prostitution, this is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 13:33:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19063702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: There is somethingwrongwith Makoto Naegi.





	something shriveled up and tight

If you were to ask someone about makoto, they’d say he was a normal, hopeful boy, and occasionally weird luck. 

That was it, really. All there was to describe him as. Nothing special in a sea of people just like him.

There was something both upsetting and comforting in that, to be ordinary. He fit perfectly in within the world, but it left it feeling... dull, for lack of a better word. Routine that seemed to monotone life, strip it down to nothing important. Because everything he did was ordinary, nothing standing out as things blurred into grey. What was the point, in continuing on the same song? Still, he smiled and bared these thoughts in his heart, hidden away from humanity.

(When did it start, he wondered. When did colors fade into nothing at all?)

(He didn’t have an answer. Was it always like this, so hazy and bitter, like unsweetened coffee and curled milk?)

Mundane tasks, day in, day out. Sometimes they helped him from his thoughts. But sometimes, his brain would fill of static, thoughts he couldn’t quite hear, but he knew like the back of his hand, flowing through the white noise. It didn’t matter, really, nothing did. Even the teacher, eyeing his blank stare with concern, didn’t matter in the slightest.

( _everything mattered_.)

The static spoke with his own thoughts, a mesh. And when he snapped out of it, he could still hear, his own self shifting to assume the roles. A narrative within his head. A conversation with himself, contradictions woven in. Like a narration cut off by parenthesis. (Like this.) ( _Like this–)_

_(a tone shift in inflection, fragments of mind, like a mirror broken.)_

_(L_ **ike** **this.)**

 **(** _a metamorphosis, perhaps._ **)**

He didn’t understand it. Like plastic, melting, wax and crayons upon a canvas, dripping down, blurring. A pink haze he couldn’t outrun, feelings stuffed in his heart and mind that didn’t make sense. Hate and love and hope and despair, mixing, mixing together with the truth and lies he himself didn’t know, didn’t understand.

He used to feel like a blank paper, like a starving stomach, devoid of flavor. Now he felt crumpled up under the wet ink that stained his pages, fit to burst, nausea permeating from food higher than acid levels—a clutter of flavors so strong and contradictory no one could stand to taste it. On the outside, he looked fine, a old worn book, freshly bought, a smiling boy with a kind face, a piece of cake frosted to perfection.

(he was a red apple, rotting away inside, waiting to put his unlucky Snow White under a curse, a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from)

( _the hivemind in us buzzed, a perspective shift in a shitty tale_ )

He was always watered down, how he presented himself in this grey, meaningless (so so so so meaningful, too complicated, to complex, _like me, ~~please help, I’m l~~_ ~~ **o _s_** **i** _n_ _g i_ _t_ h _er_ _e_ ~~_—)_ world, too dull for his colorful ( _so colorful it all blended together into grey into black just like all the rest, a tale a dim a dozen_ ) mind, cluttered and crowded. His eyes were bright though, holding his secrets within his _ugly **(** ~~beautiful **)**~~  bright **(** ~~dull **)**~~_ shade. He always seemed unable to find curtains to hide his windows.

(People said, what a genuine boy. People said, what a kind boy.  _The mirror said, what a f u c k i n g m e s s ._ )

No one knew his mind. ( _not even himself_ ~~ _s_ )~~

He didn’t fit this story at all. It fit perfectly.

(he hadn’t slept all night. is that why it was worse right then? was it just in the dark these feelings crushed his soul, blurrier his mind? for some reason, he really couldn’t remember. he never could, in these moments.)

**(the only thing he knows is that there’s something terribly wrong with him.)**

_The something(s) lurking in him all cried out, sounding like nothing at all. Sounding like a simple snap, or a breeze, carrying a beautiful laugh._ Her laugh. He didn’t know who she was, or if she had ever existed. _He’s sure that she hadn’t, simply an idea built up inside his head, ideal—beautiful and deadly_ , **someone who loved him.**

( _but could anyone really love him in a way that would ever feel enough?_ )

He didn’t know who was speaking right now. He didn’t know who was thinking these thoughts that were _his_. Or perhaps the problem was he didn’t know where he ended and something else began, didn’t know if there was even a something else within the madness of his head. He didn’t know how to separate the lines on the page, didn’t know how to differentiate himself and the world. Where was his outline, in all this? Was he even really there?

(That was all wrong. Everything he said before was wrong, of course. He was empty. There was nothing else there, not even himself, just blank masks to put upon his head. He didn’t really have any opinions, any thoughts or feelings at all. Only a void of nothingness to suck out all you hold.

Or maybe it was a black hole, crushing everything in his ribcage, trapped behind it, eating himself to get out. He built too much inside himself to fill everything- so so empty, maybe. Was it ever empty? Everything was fuzzy with startling clarity, after all, words and ideas that didn’t make sense strung after each other on a page. Maybe he was just trying to destroy the part of him that went too much too much, the part of him that screams not enough not enough. Maybe he was trying to empty himself, hurting hurting hurting himself to make it all stop. He wanted to dye his wrists in red, but he was never so brave in real life. The compulsion was always there, wiggling in the back of his mind. His veins seemed to scream for it, pure desire. His wrist suddenly aware of every atom, and every inch of its unmarked skin. The only scars he had were faded and faint, sprinkled in along stretch marks painting his thighs, purposeful. He was smart about it. Or maybe he was just too scared to be discovered, too much of a coward to see the proof he etched into skin staring back at him every morning. On his thighs, he could almost ignore it. But perversely, he always wanted scars on his wrists, before he even knew what self harm was, before he felt sad or confuse or anything else, only happy, if a little lonely. Even then his wrists tingled with promise. One day, they whisper, one day. _He could almost hear them_.)

_~~(apart of him wondered if he should just die than deal with this world, this brain, this heart. it would be easier. he could rest. and he is so, so tired.)~~ _

A nightmare. Life was a nightmare that went on and on forever, no matter how much he begged and pleaded to wake up. Only a black void remained in his vision, boring to look at upon hours and hours. And yet something primal in him forced him to remain terrified at the endless abyss staring back at them, mind playing tricks that whispered the shadows moved. The shadows, the darkness, that threatened to swallow him whole.

But at the same time he was bored. Because the same terror had ran in his veins for years now, the same void staring back at him unforgivingly. _When will it end, when will this hell end?_

He knew he needed help, _(Help. Please.)_ but he couldn’t reach out quite right. He couldn’t articulate his feelings when it felt his whole personality, whole beliefs and thoughts processes varried from moment to moment, day to day. ( _and no one really cared enough to notice, did they? not really. not in real life, not the family who raised you. and your life blurs with your memories, indistinguishable._ ) The same person, but so different.

( names collected from fiction clutched tightly, as if that could make you understand the mess of your head, companions you know but fade in the real world clogging up your hunger pang heart, feelings that will never quite reach, a dimension that may not be, a self that may be false )

He used to want control, control of his life that kept throwing him curve balls (rain, him standing out in the rain oblivious to how things have crumbled, cold chill reaching him through the underpass he was under, waiting for a dad who never came despite a text saying he was leaving soon. never came even long into the night. loneliness and concern attacked your heart, but you also felt muted, the worry far away as you went to sleep. and his dad was arrested, bailed out and free to go, but suddenly unwelcomed as his mom sat him down to talk and his sister cried. prostitution that went on for two years. a divorce in the making. but you don’t know if you even felt anything at all) control of this mind he didn’t understand. He faced his traumas and route causes, outlined his life in words that never did any good. A heart can’t change with such things, not really. He tried to understand himself, and he did, on some level, his base self that seemed to get dimmer and dimmer everyday. His mind was all the same though, screaming voices that wouldn’t SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT THE FUCK UP. And the itch of control hurt, he needed, he needed,

dont touch anything, it’s mine, komaru. get out get out get out.

youre scaring me, makoto.

(shut up, shut up, shut up.) ( _he swallows that down into the festering wound of his heart. komaru doesn’t deserve that._ ) (why won’t she just get out get out get out THOSE ARE MINE, DONT FUCKING TOUCH THEM.) ( _she deserved better than him, and his parallel thoughts._ ) 

_**(** he hates himself—no, he hates what’s, who’s, inside of him. is there a difference? it’s all so scary, and no one cares. he’s just another ordinary sob story, after all, common place, not special in the slightest. he’s tired. **)**_

_(_ And after the killing game, he wonders.

_**do you think sayaka would care? do you think if she knew she wouldn’t have left him, wouldn’t have tried to frame him for a murder? why did he ever trust her in the first place—he knows this happens every time.** _

He never has an answer. _Corpses_ _don’t speak._ Sometimes, neither does he. _)_  

He could never tell anyone with athourty over him how much he suffered, though. Even when he tried to reach out, his heart would be uneasy. He didn’t trust them, he realized, he didn’t trust them not to use such knowledge against him. They had power in his life, real and tangible. He was a minor, his fate out of his hands. He didn’t want what leverage he had to go away. (did he see them as enemies, then?) 

And so it didn’t really make sense. Why he craved control and abhor it. Decisions, left to him, anxiety rising and he feels like he’ll drown. But when other people touched his stuff, made his choices for him, something itches and wormed in his heart. (but those are **mine** it growled.) and yet, and yet... those moments with her were different.

Nausea swarmed him. ( _junko enoshima was so far from boring, a horrifying splatter of pink admits this boring monotone_ )

(Was it the feel of her boot? The pain so real and crisp, the degrading words that made him cry and preen? Oh how he craved it still. And yet some part of him wanted to spit his own venom, see her tremble and shake and despair, give her what she supposedly craves and see how much she _hates_ it. **Make her hate it**. Not because he hated her, but simply... because. It would be darkly satisfying, twisted like this grotesque romance he dreams of. _He wants her to hurt him. He wants to hurt her._ Wants to become something irreplaceable, something she couldn’t throw away. Wants to brand it into her skin, wants to let her use him as she wants. **She won’t fucking leave, she won’t, he won’t let her.** )

(maybe he’s a horrible person. they were made for each other.)

He wants to break smoke into his lungs. He wants to taste the ash on his tongue, inhale the poison his mind spits, hold it in his chest. He wants to die young, wants bad habits that float instead of sink something inside of him. Wants to get rid of this stress that eats him from the inside out. But he can’t, because he has asthma, and he’s too much of a coward in the end. But he wants it. Wants to feel the incoming asthma attack and laugh, breathing more chemicals into his brain.

He wants someone to kiss his neck, to bite into soft flesh and mark him, claim him. The thought makes a distant part of him sick, siliva on his skin. He wants only teeth and lips. He wants someone both cruel and kind, someone with a smile taht could kill and eyes piercing. Eyes bright with love and darkened with distain, lips soft and tender and caring that curl up into smirks and sneer insults into his ears. Or maybe he doesn’t want that, maybe all that will bring is more gashes to his heart until it liquifies. He really doesn’t understand a thing at all, could only hear his disjointed thoughts.

Maybe he thought he deserved pain. Maybe he thought the only way someone would love him is if he got on the ground and groveled like a dog, begging for scraps. Maybe he thought if he let himself be collared and chained, if he let himself be owned, he wouldn’t be left alone to rot, he’d belong and love and be loved. You break it, you buy it—so he was more than willing to be broken, to do whatever she wanted if it got her to stay, give him her attention, love him.

And maybe he really was a dog, because apart of him screamed to ravish her, to bite the hand that feeds and mark and claim and yell mine mine mine mine.

( But she wasn’t some object, and he wasn’t some pet, and everything always fell short, fucked up and messy, distinctly human. )

So where did it all leave him? At the end of the day, where was he, who was he? At the end of the day, was there anything he really wanted that wasn’t just scraps of affection, counterfeit love he kept seeking out, despite his better judgement? 

He didn’t know. Maybe for his head to be quiet. (The only time it was ever quiet was when he was _getting what he deserves, a boot against back, disgusted eyes, a girl who always seems to **understand** without him even speaking—)_

Maybe to understand. Maybe for a better world, instead of such a daunting world so corrupt, systems failed but still running. _Maybe it would be better if the world was burned to ashes and started anew, systems torn down and dismantled, rebuilding from the ground up, a place he could shape to a be better without interference._

( eventually, like always, junko gives him what he wants, without him even saying. )

 

(but she died, and something twisted and ugly and wrong clogs up makotos throat, when he remembers)

(she left like everyone else. was this despair her final gift to him?)

 

 

 

 

 

 

~~_( If you were to ask junko about makoto, she’d smile something sinister, like she knew a secret you couldn’t fathom, before turning and walking away. Perhaps it was a secret she kept for herself. )_ ~~

**Author's Note:**

> It’s 9:00 am and I haven’t slept, take this unedited dumpster fire of my fucked up mental state


End file.
